Red-Handed
by englishtutor
Summary: In which Mary Morstan is further tested in dealing with Sherlock Holmes. From Greg Lestrade's perspective.


He hated making these kinds of calls; hated it more when it was someone he knew and cared about. The siren of the ambulance ahead was screaming, and he felt his heart was beating with it. He was thankful that Donovan was driving the car so that his hands were free to use his mobile.

"Hullo, Greg?" Mary answered, a question in her voice. Lestrade never called her. Why should he? He could almost feel her fear over the phone.

"Mary, I'm sending a car over for you. Are you at the clinic?"

Warily: "Yes."

"You need to meet me at the A & E. John's been hurt."

Silence. Then, "What happened? Is he all right?" Her voice shook, but she remained calm. Good girl!

"I honestly don't know. I'm following the ambulance right now. I can tell you he's been stabbed. Mary, it didn't look good. You need to brace yourself. And don't try to get over there by yourself, all right? Wait for my officer. I don't want to be worrying about your safety on top of everything else. Am I clear?"

A sob. Silence. "Yes, I'll wait. Thank you, Greg. You're a good friend," her unsteady voice came at last. She was trying hard to keep her composure.

"Is there someone there who can wait with you?" Lestrade asked with concern.

"What? Um, yes, I. . . . Yes, I'll find someone."

"I'll see you there, then." Lestrade hung up reluctantly, unsure that it was the right thing to do. He had come to like Mary Morstan. She was the perfect match for John—intelligent, funny, patient, and loyal. She not only understood John's important role in Sherlock's work, she encouraged him in it. Lestrade only wished his ex-wife had been as supportive as John's fiancée was proving to be.

Fiancée. Poor Mary. Was it really only four days ago that Lestrade had attended their engagement party? She and John had looked so happy, so content together; a perfect set of bookends, he'd thought. Lestrade had marveled at the time at how Mary had managed to gain Sherlock's approval. Sherlock never approved of anyone, except John. Now he realized that he had never heard Sherlock say a negative thing about her. Whether it was because she had gained Sherlock's respect, or because Sherlock respected John, Lestrade had no idea. He only hoped she could help him with the detective, because he had no idea what to do with him.

"We should be taking the freak downtown, not letting him come with," Donovan interrupted his thoughts. "I mean, we caught him literally bloody red-handed. I warned John he'd come to no good if he stayed friends with Sherlock Holmes."

"Shut up, Donovan," Lestrade growled.

OOO

He stood before the door of the waiting room, blocking Mary's way as she approached down the corridor. Her face was stained with tears, but she was outwardly calm and collected, to his great relief. He needed her. It wasn't fair, she should be the one to be cosseted and comforted; but he needed her to help him with Sherlock.

"What's happened? Where's John?" she asked breathlessly.

"He's in surgery. They took him in immediately." He named the surgeon, knowing that as a doctor herself she would want to know who was operating on her fiancé. "All I know is, I got a text from him telling me to bring a team to a certain warehouse, where they'd found that art thief that we've been looking for—you know, it's been in the news for weeks. When we arrived, we'd no sooner surrounded the place when the thief himself comes blazing out the door like the devil was on his heels. He was certain Sherlock and John were chasing him, but they never came out. I went in looking for them, and I found John with knife in the back and Sherlock covered with blood, in an absolute panic. I've never seen him like this before, Mary. He hasn't spoken a word—just paces around, can't keep still. I'm sorry, but I don't know what else to do. I need your help calming him down. I need him to tell me what happened."

Mary rubbed her face with her hands, but her eyes remained dry. She was all business now, all Dr. Morstan, ready to do her job. "Is he hurt? Has anyone examined him?"

"He won't let anyone near him. "

Lestrade stepped aside and held the door for her. In spite of his best warnings, she gasped.

Sherlock was indeed pacing frantically, and his hands and clothes were soaked in blood. His face was bloody, too, where he'd rubbed it with his gory hands, though this was difficult to see as he was looking only at the floor. He was breathing hard, as if he had been running for a long time. The scent of blood was overpowering. Donovan, who had been keeping an eye on him, stepped over to Lestrade, out of Mary's way.

"Oh, my lord," Mary whispered. But she didn't falter. She took a deep breath and walked carefully towards him, trying not to startle him.

"Sherlock? It's Mary, sweetheart. Stop and let me look at you. I need to know if you're hurt."

"Sweetheart?" Donovan murmured, and Lestrade muttered, "Shut up, Donovan."

Mary gently took Sherlock's hands to examine them, but he snatched them away. "No," he groaned. "Leave me be."

"I can't. I need to know if you're hurt," Mary repeated. "Please look at me."

He raised his eyes to hers. He seemed to register her presence for the first time. "Mary? O god, Mary, I'm so sorry."

"Are you hurt?" she said more urgently, insistently.

"No, it's John. . . ." he looked at his hands. "Blood. It's all his. All John's. So much. . . ."

He tried to start his agitated pacing again, but Mary held him by one arm and touched his face. It was cold and slick with sweat. "You're going into shock. I need you to sit down immediately."

"No, no, I tried, I can't. I can't be still," his breathing was agitated and he looked panicked. "It's all my fault, Mary. I stabbed him."

The world stopped for a moment. Then Mary took a deep breath and said quietly, "I don't believe that."

"The knife was in my hand, and then it was in his back. Beneath right rib cage, perforated bowel, couldn't stop the bleeding, he said not to remove the knife. . . ." His expression was heart-breaking, and he looked at Mary as if he expected to pushed away, shouted at, rejected.

Mary gently held his face in her hands instead, studying his eyes. She called over her shoulder to Lestrade for help. "He's going to pass out. I need him to sit down."

"He NEEDS to be locked up," Donovan snapped.

"Shut up, Donovan," Lestrade commanded sharply, walking over to take Sherlock's arms. Sherlock pulled away, doubled over, and was promptly sick on the floor. Lestrade held him upright as his knees buckled under him. Between them, Lestrade and Mary managed to get him into a chair. Mary pushed his head down to his knees.

"I need a warm blanket and a lot of wet towels, Greg," Mary said calmly, rubbing Sherlock's back and making him keep his head down. Her jaw was tight and she had tears in her eyes, but she was still in doctor mode. Her composure was astounding.

"Donovan, get something to clean that up," Lestrade said, as he was striding out the door to the nurse's station. He noticed her mouth opening as if to protest as he swept by her, but he ignored her. When he got back with the supplies Mary needed, Donovan was on her knees with a wad of paper towels and Mary was on her knees in front of Sherlock's chair, speaking in a low, soothing tone. He threw the blanket around Sherlock's shoulders and stood there, holding the towels, waiting for orders.

"Breathe with me. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Slowly, slowly. Do it with me, sweetheart. Like this." She breathed in and out several times, and Sherlock tried to regulate his breathing to match hers. "Good, good." She reached for his wrist, but again he jerked his hands away from her. "All right. It's all right," she murmured gently. She reached up and took his pulse at his neck instead. "Vital signs are stabilizing. Good."

She took a wet towel from Lestrade. "I'm going to clean your face, now, all right? It'll be a little cold, but it should feel good. Good, good. You're doing fine." She took another towel. "Now I'm going to clean your hands. I know you don't want me to touch them, but it will make you feel better." She took one of his hands, but he instantly panicked and stood up, swaying dangerously, and tried to move away from her.

"You can't. You can't. It's wrong," he cried hoarsely. His knees began to sag and his eyes were unfocused.

Mary stood up and grabbed his arms again. Her tone changed. "Sherlock Holmes! You will do exactly as I say and nothing else. Is that clear? You will sit down in this chair and you will stay there until I say otherwise."

He looked at her determined face, trying to focus. Then he collapsed into the chair.

Mary's voice returned to the soothing cadence she had been using before and she got back down on the floor. "That's better. Put your head down again, sweetheart. Breathe like I showed you. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Slowly. With me. That's it, good."

Lestrade glanced back at Donovan, who looked back at him sullenly, arms crossed over her chest. She was not impressed, certain this was all an act. He sighed and turned back to watching Mary.

"There now, sweetheart. We'll try again. I need to clean your hands."

Sherlock did not pull away this time, strangely cowed by Mary. But he did weakly protest, "No, it's wrong. You should not be the one to clean John's blood off my hands. It's so wrong. I can't let you."

With that, Mary almost lost her composure. Lestrade saw silent tears stream down her face as she visibly struggled not to weep aloud. She pressed her lips together tightly until she regained control of herself. "Who better," she began, but her voice quavered and she stopped, breathed carefully, and tried again. "Who better to do it than the one who cares for you both?" she whispered at last.

He seemed to think this over. Then he held out his hands, and she washed the blood from them, tears dripping unrestrained. Lestrade noticed that she seemed to caress the reddened towel, the only bit of John that she could reach.

She wiped her eyes and turned back to Lestrade. "His sense of smell is so sensitive. I think he'll do better if I can get as much of the blood off of him as possible. Can you find a shirt or something he can wear? And some more wet towels?"

"Here," Lestrade handed her the rest of the towels in his hand. "Donovan, get a hospital gown from the nurse's station." He didn't turn to see if Donovan complied, but he heard the door open and shut. Then he helped Mary take off Sherlock's shirt, stiff and gruesome, and clean the blood from his chest. By the time they had finished, Donovan had returned, and they put the gown on the eerily subdued Sherlock and re-covered him with the blanket.

"Keep your head down," Mary reminded him, and took his pulse again. "Good. You're doing good. I'll let you sit up in a moment." She stood up, unsteady on her feet. Lestrade took her arm to help steady her, and she nodded to him gratefully and stretched her cramped legs.

"This is what shock feels like," Sherlock said tonelessly. "Why am I in shock? I wasn't hurt."

"It's the body's natural response to trauma. It's perfectly normal. You'll be all right," Mary assured him.

"I've never responded to trauma in this way before," he stated softly.

"I know. But it's John, this time, isn't it?" Mary replied quietly. "I'd be worried if you hadn't had a reaction like this, to be honest." She put her hand on his head comfortingly, and Lestrade wondered at her ability to continue dealing so compassionately with the man who had just admitted to knifing her lover. If he had not admired Mary Morstan before, he certainly did now. The woman had steel in her spine and balm in her soul.

Mary checked Sherlock's pulse once more, then let him sit up. "But you're not to stand up yet. Just sit there quietly and rest," she told him.

"Can he talk about it now, do you think?" Lestrade asked her.

"If he feels up to it. Do you want to tell us what happened now, sweetheart?"

Sherlock could not meet her eyes, but he began to talk, without emotion. "We entered the warehouse where I had deduced the art thief was keeping the paintings. And we found him, cutting the canvases out of their frames and preparing them for shipping. He ran, we followed. He dropped something. I picked it up. It was the knife he'd been using to cut the canvases out of the frames. He entered a corridor from which there was no outlet, but there were a number of offices opening off of it on both sides. John went first, opening each door and checking inside."

Lestrade frowned. What Sherlock meant by this, but was not saying, was that John had gone first because he was carrying his very illegal firearm. It had not been found on the scene, which meant it had to be hidden on Sherlock's person somewhere. Lestrade decided not to ask about it. Better not to know.

"I was following, examining the knife. It had bits of canvas caught in the serrated edge, perfect evidence. John reached the end of the corridor, but before he could open the final door, it flew open and the thief shoved John hard, backwards, into me, and ran past us. He shoved John into me." Sherlock's voice broke and he fell silent. Tears stood in his eyes.

Mary gasped and pressed her hand against her mouth. She drew in a shuddering breath and sank into the chair next to Sherlock. All the strength had gone out of her. She looked ill.

Sherlock now gazed at Mary, his eyes haunted with regret. "I'm so sorry," he whispered hoarsely. "I was holding the knife out; I was looking at it, not at what was ahead. I didn't drop it in time. If I hadn't been looking at it. . . ."

Mary bit her lips, trying to regain her composure. She put her hand on his shoulder. "It isn't your fault. You have fast reflexes, but you're not super human, Sherlock. No one could have dropped the knife fast enough to prevent an accident."

"I should not have been holding it up in the first place. I killed him, Mary." He closed his eyes, and the unshed tears ran down his face.

"Don't say that!" Mary said sharply, and he winced. "John's not dead. He's in surgery. He's going to be all right." She gentled her voice and continued more softly, "He wouldn't leave us. He won't leave us."

She took his hand, and Lestrade was not sure whether she did so for his comfort or for her own. He felt uncomfortable, witnessing this, but neither could he move away.

Sherlock went on. "It's my fault he's injured. I shouldn't have been holding the knife at all."

"Then you would not have been doing your job. Collecting evidence is part of what you do. It was an accident, Sherlock. You can't blame yourself. If the knife had been pointed towards you when John fell into you, would you have blamed him for your being stabbed?"

Sherlock shivered and looked down and stayed silent. Lestrade stood uncertainly. His business here was done, but he couldn't leave them to sit alone, waiting for news.

"You go on," he said to Donovan. "Book that art thief and write the report. I won't be back today."

"Yes, sir," she said, subdued. "Do I charge him with attempted manslaughter?"

"For now," he sighed, hoping not to have to take the "attempted" part off the charges later.

Now he watched Sherlock and Mary, sitting side by side. Mary still had one of the bloody towels in her lap, stroking it absently. What would happen to them if John didn't make it? Sherlock would not be able to shed himself of his guilt. And Mary, made a widow before she was ever a wife. It wasn't fair. Such a stupid, senseless accident. Lestrade sat in the chair on the other side of Mary and settled in for a long wait.

Hours passed. None of them spoke. But each moment was an encouragement, for each moment without word was a moment in which John was still alive. When a nurse arrived with news at last, Lestrade was the one who went to the door to speak with her. He angled his body in order to be able to see the nurse and still keep an eye on his friends. Mary was watching him, alert, her face a study in hope and fear. Sherlock kept his face down and hidden, but his body was tensed with intent listening.

"He's in recovery," the nurse began to explain. There was lot more, about reconstructive surgery and peritonitis and antibiotics. Lestrade interrupted. "But will he be all right?"

The nurse smiled slightly. "Barring unforeseen circumstances, yes, he should fully recover in six weeks or so."

A sob of relief escaped Mary's throat, and Lestrade saw her hide her face in Sherlock's shoulder and weep. He saw Sherlock pat her hair awkwardly, unsure of what to do but trying to console her.

"Mary, he's going to be all right. You can stop crying now," he said encouragingly. She laughed through her sobs.

"I'm crying now because I couldn't before. Nurse, when can I see him?" Mary begged.

"He'll be a long time in recovery, but I'll come get you when we move him to a private room."

Mary dropped her towel and threw her arms around Sherlock with joy. "I told you he'd be all right. He wouldn't leave us."

Then she stood and hugged Lestrade as well. "Thank you, Greg. You've been a wonderful friend."

"Just glad I could help," Lestrade smiled. What a remarkable woman Mary Morstan was, he reflected, watching her leave the waiting room to freshen up. Not many could do what she had done that day, with such perfect composure. It had been a privilege to see.

"Come on, Sherlock, I'll buy you coffee downstairs," Lestrade offered. They went out together, side by side.


End file.
